A March to Remember Read Free Page B

hand.”
    â€œWell, if you won’t let me escort you, mind that you don’t stray from Pennsylvania Avenue until you get there. No shortcuts toward B Street, particularly not between Pennsylvania and Ohio. We wouldn’t want you to inadvertently find yourself in Murder Bay, now, would we? I don’t think the senator or your Sir Arthur would like to hear that, even in the day, you were mistaken for, shall we say, ‘a fallen woman’?”
    Murder Bay? I’d never heard of it and said so.
    â€œMaybe you’ve heard it referred to as ‘Hooker’s Division’ after that general’s habit of sending his troops there to let off some steam?”
    Now, that rang a bell. In my research for Sir Arthur, a prominent Civil War historian, I’d read about the time when General Hooker and his men had quartered inside the city. I’d come across that name before, “Hooker’s Division,” but had only read hints of the scandalous behavior being concentrated in that part of the city. I’d had no idea it was nearby.
    â€œI may have. What is it?”
    Claude Morris was more than enthusiastic in his description of a neighborhood notorious for its gambling, brothels, and crime. I was amused as he attempted to impart the depravity of the area while using language suitable for a lady’s ear, such as “young men out for misadventure,” “odoriferous alleys in need of civic attention,” and “misguided girls who walk the streets at night.” Curious, I was an attentive audience. I wasn’t surprised the city had such a neighborhood; most larger cities do, whether we ladies are supposed to know about them or not. What did surprise me, if I understood correctly from the directions that Mr. Morris made me promise to follow, was that it was merely blocks away from where we stood. I had no intention of wandering into the den of criminals, but it made me bristle to have this man, several years younger than me, dictate how I was to traverse the city.
    As Mr. Morris finished, he tilted his head in anticipation of my response. I silently counted backward from ten in French.
    â€œThank you, Mr. Morris,” I said calmly. “I will heed your warning and make mine a direct route to the station. Good day!”
    How easily you lie, Hattie Davish! I admonished myself. Yet I felt strangely at ease with my deception.
    He smiled, satisfied he’d done his good deed for the day, tipped his hat, and headed down the steps to the circle drive. I waited and watched him until he crossed the street and entered Lafayette Square, a tree-lined public park north of the White House. When he passed the statue of Andrew Jackson astride his rearing horse and turned toward the Smith home, Mr. Morris disappeared from view beneath the trees. I then skipped down the stairs and headed down Pennsylvania Avenue in search of a shortcut through the so-called Murder Bay.
    * * *
    Is that what a fallen woman looks like?
    I’d ignored Claude Morris’s advice, a circuitous route from Fifteenth to B Street NW, cutting across the Mall at Fourteenth to B Street SW and then back up Sixth to the train station, and instead took the more direct route down Pennsylvania Avenue to the station. I admit I cut down Fourteenth Street, which crossed Ohio Avenue, in direct defiance of Mr. Morris’s advice, as the man was too presumptuous toward me. In my mind, we were on the same social and economic level. On the whole, we held the same position for our respective employers, equals, if I may be so bold, and I was not obliged to take his advice. Of course, he saw it differently. Since the day I’d arrived, he’d taken on the role of brotherly protector, which I neither asked for nor was in need of. And as the days wore on, his condescension had worn thin. Without offending our host, Senator Smith, or my employer, Sir Arthur, I’d managed to defy almost every directive, command, and